Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(36)

   Theresa, saint that she was, just smiled at me and picked up her guitar. And I thought, No way I’m a lesbian. I was watching Theresa strum away and I tried to picture fucking her. I couldn’t even figure out what to picture. I imagined grinding on her like the boys were always doing to me, and I nearly burst out laughing. I might have if I weren’t so sure Valerie would’ve demanded to know why. So there it was—I was not a lesbian. Sure, Valerie kept calling me a lesbian. But I called her fat. Sisters say stupid shit.

Gabe never did stop warning me about what could make me a lesbian. Even long after we left the Family. Watching Roseanne could do it, tip me over the edge. 90210 was safe as long as I made it clear I wanted to kiss Brandon, not be Brandon. Music was dangerous. Alanis Morissette was definitely a lesbian. So was Dolores O’Riordan, with her manly shaved head. He said his cousin had seen Melissa Etheridge in Los Angeles, with a woman who looked like a man. He didn’t mind if I listened to country, but not that Mary Chapin lady. Something wasn’t right with her. No Reba either. He knew Dolly Parton wasn’t a lesbian. Obviously she was too pretty. But it was suspect how much I loved her. Really all celebrities were suspect. They were either queers or feminazis. (Gabe had found a new prophet in Rush Limbaugh. All the misogyny and none of the work.) Books were a constant danger, but he couldn’t be bothered to read them for content. He’d just helpfully point out that I’d been reading a lot of that Agatha Christie. He was a slightly better judge of movies. Silence of the Lambs was banned, and Thelma & Louise, but so were 9 to 5 and anything by John Hughes. Anything I liked too much. It sounded like a recipe warning. Whip the cream a little too much and it’ll break and there you have it—homosexuality.

   Knowing I didn’t consider him my real dad, Gabe used my father as a weapon: “If he saw you do that”—whatever it was that time—“what would he think? He’d be disgusted. And it won’t be on me. God knows I tried.” My dad came to visit once, when I was seventeen. He was living in Poland, I think. Who cares. He brought his stepson and wife. And after he left, Gabe was relentless. “You know he already has a new son. He doesn’t need either of you.” (Mikey didn’t fare much better under Gabe’s homo-inquisitions. He was “a wimp,” a “little limp-wristed,” “a fag.”)

Gabe was an idiot. Mikey’s straight. And I didn’t want to fuck Dolly Parton. (It feels disrespectful to even write that sentence.) I did have a lot of feelings about Linda Evangelista in the “Freedom! ’90” video. But I didn’t know not being able to breathe was a symptom to look out for. No book I found in the Amarillo public library made me want to hump girls. And I certainly wasn’t checking out my teammates in the locker room. More than that, I usually changed in a bathroom stall. If someone talked to me in the locker room and I wasn’t sure she was fully dressed, I’d stare at her shoes, the ceiling, the locker behind her, anything. Up until Eudy’s lesbian accusation, I’d made it through most of basic training without showing signs of catching something lesbian. And in basic training, we had to shower together.

   The first few weeks, I didn’t have time to notice. There were fifty of us, eight showerheads, and we had five minutes. We didn’t have time to get wet. But later on, they relaxed a little. There was even time to shave your legs. This is what the entire country was shitting itself over—the clear and present danger of homosexuals in showers. But anytime I was in the shower, I stared at the ceiling tiles in absolute terror I’d accidentally see the naked body of another airman. (I didn’t know at the time that counting ceiling tiles is the customary practice of homosexuals in communal showers.)

Once out of basic training, I could watch any Jodie Foster movie I wanted. I could read any book I chose without someone keeping score of how many women I’d read that week. I was free to buy Indigo Girls CDs. It wasn’t because they were gay. I didn’t even like Melissa Etheridge. If I played that Sarah McLachlan CD every single night, maybe it was just to drown out my roommate’s Bone Thugs CD. None of it made me gay. I never even went to San Francisco, though the rumor was gay bars didn’t ask for ID. I was perfectly happy drinking on the beach with the rest of the underage airmen. Sure, I had the occasional crush on a girl. But as long as I avoided her completely, I could tell myself I was normal.

The first time I spent the night with a lesbian, it wasn’t sexual. The first time was the exact opposite of sexual. She was a salty old Marine staff sergeant who looked like Sam Shepard, but butch. She was a class ahead of me in my Vietnamese school at DLI. We’d talked a few times in the bathroom—in the bathroom because I didn’t want anyone seeing me talking to an obvious lesbian.

   I’m sure she knew I was gay. I’m sure she knew it would do no good to tell me. She did tell me I was pregnant. She asked if I knew. We were in the bathroom in one of the old WWII-era buildings they still used for the school. I’d left class to throw up, and when I came out of the stall, she was leaning against the sink with her arms crossed. I thought she was going to chew me out for drinking. Then I remembered I wasn’t hungover.

She handed me a paper towel and stepped aside so I could use the sink. She asked how late I was. I spat into the sink and told her I wasn’t pregnant. That was ridiculous. Jesus. That’s how rumors start. I fixed my uniform like I was ready to leave. But now she was standing in front of the door, chewing her cheek and shaking her head like it’d be a shame if she had to fight me. I wasn’t stupid enough to barge past a staff sergeant. So I just stood there, admiring the shine on my boots. She said, “You need help, you’ll let me know.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded because I wasn’t going to cry. I said, “I’m not pregnant.”